


look no further

by inkyindigo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Worms, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Short Jon, jon gets picked up: the fic, martin is BIG and WIDE and FULL OF LOVE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22870822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyindigo/pseuds/inkyindigo
Summary: Martin just wants to keep Jon safe. Sometimes the easiest way to do that is to bodily remove him from harm's way.or, a collection of times Martin picks Jon up.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 212
Kudos: 1256





	1. not safe for work

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a parody of myself but i just want jon to be held gently by someone who cares about him

Archive shelving was a mess.

Now, what Martin thought was a mess was different from what Jon thought was a mess. They did, however, agree on this particular state of disaster. Martin didn’t know the first thing about archiving, but he could guess that the boxes everywhere - in neat lines on the shelves nonetheless - should probably have labels. The room had been dusted and vacuumed before their new archival team started work, so if they had somehow fallen off, they were long gone.

Jon spent his first few days barely reigning in incredulous annoyance, which was not helped at all by Martin spending his first day ducking around shelves in search of a small dog. There were multiple places to hide in there when you were a meter tall. It was a tight fit, especially for Martin, who had to move carefully to make sure he didn’t knock anything over.

Jon was far from a meter tall, yet he fit in there almost as well as the dog had. Martin would still sometimes stumble across him sitting on the floor, nearly hidden by boxes and rumpled folders. He would hardly pay Martin any attention besides a glance up before he went back to his reams of paper, always frowning. He’d assigned the assistants some filing work when he didn’t need them on a case and Martin could sometimes sneak glances at him from behind his own tower of files. He probably shouldn’t be bringing tea into the archive, but Jon never scolded him about it and would accept a cup on a good day. Most of the time he waved it off and went back to sitting in silence with an occasional grumpy murmur that made Martin smile.

Jon was not sitting today. Martin walked in to see him on a step stool and straining to reach the top shelf of the “Follow Up - Ghosts” section. Martin cleared his throat so as not to startle him; he didn’t look very stable. “Uh, do you need any help?”

“No thank you, Martin,” Jon said absently. He pulled the box down into his arms and wobbled dangerously. Martin took an instinctive step forward, but Jon caught his balance and moved the box down to the shelf at hip height. He reached up for the next one; it was further back on the shelf and he had to rise onto his tiptoes.

“Jon, really - ”

“I’ve got it.” With his arms at an angle fast approaching the limits of how elbows could bend, he managed to hook his fingers around the back of the box. As he pulled it toward him, Martin saw a dark grey metal lockbox resting on top, out of Jon’s line of sight. It pressed a slight dent in the cardboard and it was sliding straight toward Jon’s head.

Martin didn’t think; he snatched Jon off the stool and out of the way. Jon yelped and his hands gripped where Martin’s arms wrapped around his waist as the box fell to the floor and spit its nest of papers everywhere. The lockbox crashed on top of the stool with a sound that made Martin wince and clutch Jon tighter to his chest. A few of his curls brushed Martin’s chin. He suddenly realized he was holding Jon completely off the ground and, mortified, put him back on his feet. All the sloping lines of him were ramrod straight and his hands were tense on Martin’s forearms. They were really nice hands.

“Is everyone okay?”

“What was that noise?”

Tim and Sasha appeared in the doorway at a run. Tim stumbled over a box and Sasha bumped into his back. She hauled herself up by the back of his shirt and nearly pulled him over again. Jon squirmed out of Martin’s arms in a way that left him simultaneously bereft and endeared.

“Oh _Jesus,_ Sash - ”

“Sorry!”

“ - everyone good, anyone get crushed?”

“We’re fine, I just knocked something over.” Jon smoothed the front of his jumper; he looked remarkably calm despite the... _everything._ “Thank you for your assistance, Martin.”

“No problem,” Martin squeaked.

“Enough gawking, everyone can get back to work now,” Jon said with a wave of his hands. 

“We can help clean up,” Sasha offered, but Jon shook his head.

“No, Martin and I can handle it.” Jon bent down to pick up the lockbox and looked at it with fascination, as if it hadn’t almost caved his head in. Tim and Sasha looked to Martin and he shrugged, hoping his face wasn’t bright red.

“Alright, then.” Tim glared at the box that had tripped him and nudged it out of the doorway with the toe of his shoe. “Have fun, you two.” He and Sasha left, the sound of him fussing about stretching out his shirt wafting out from the hallway.

The lockbox wasn’t actually locked and Jon popped the latch. “There’s tapes in here,” he said with open curiosity. Martin crouched to start picking up the papers and stared at the floor instead of Jon as he said, “Sorry about that.”

“I hope you’re not apologizing for saving my skull,” Jon said. He joined Martin on the floor and Martin tried not to look at the way his wrists, elegant and narrow, peeked out from his sleeves as he gathered papers.

“No, no, I mean for...uh, just grabbing you like that. I wouldn’t have, if there had been time.”

Jon let out a little huff. Martin forgot the papers as a hint of rosiness surfaced in Jon’s cheeks. “Well, it wasn’t _ideal,_ but it was preferable to the alternative. Just don’t do it again.” As if Martin had made an error in paperwork rather than picking up his boss like a cat.

“Yeah, yeah, of course!” Martin beamed. “I’ll put in a request for taller step stools.” 

The archive got their step stools and it may have indirectly led to Elias lecturing Jon about HSE standards, therefore evaporating any positive feelings he had toward Martin. At least he was less likely to hurt himself. Martin would take that trade.


	2. the inherent intimacy of hiding from worms together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the worm chapter, tags have been updated. Martin can have one and a half pick-ups, as a treat.

Archive shelving was full of worms.

Martin skidded to a stop in the doorway and could only stare with his mouth open. He’d expected worms the moment he heard Sasha scream; he expected worms when he heard the building settling at night. But not like this.

For half a second he tried to wrap his head around how the carpet was suddenly a different color. He watched what should be fibers move before his eyes, oozing toward where Jon and Sasha were up on a table and pressed against the wall. That squirming sound they made - it was so much worse than what he’d heard through the door to his flat. He wouldn’t be able to eat mac and cheese for a long time. 

It took Jon yelling at him to get the CO2 for him to move. Martin bolted back to document storage and grabbed the first extinguisher he saw. He’d practiced how to activate it a thousand times when he was alone. He could do it with his eyes shut. 

He sprayed the worms climbing the table legs first and they dropped like rocks. More climbed over them in a great roiling mass, but they were slow, especially when the dead ones piled up. With a clear path made, Jon and Sasha jumped down from the table and Martin started to back up, herding them both toward document storage. 

Jon shouted a warning, seized his arm and forced him to pivot to the left. Worms flew past where he had just been standing. They hadn’t jumped as high as the last time Martin encountered them; they barely made it to chest height before they splatted to the floor.

Jon’s hand left his arm just as they made it to the door and Martin spun to see him double back, toward where that damn tape recorder lay on the floor.

“Jon, no, just leave it!” Sasha cried.

 _For God’s sake._ Martin was not apologizing for this afterwards. 

He dropped the extinguisher, ran after Jon, and scooped him up. In his haste to get him off the floor and away from the worms, he hauled Jon higher than he intended, until his torso was half bent over Martin’s shoulder. Jon clutched his shoulders with a squawk of “ _Martin!_ ” and Martin ignored him, carting him through the door to document storage. Sasha slammed it shut as soon as they were inside and he dropped Jon on the cot.

“Oh my _god,_ Jon, I have another recorder!” he said at the same time Sasha exclaimed “Are you insane?”

“I’m _sorry,”_ Jon snapped back. “I know, yell at me later, did any worms get you?” His eyes went wide. “Sasha, your leg!”

Sasha yelled “Shit!” and blasted her right leg with the fire extinguisher Martin had dropped. She ripped a hole in her tights, pulled out the shriveled remains of a single worm just starting to burrow into her ankle, and stomped on it with gusto. “No you don’t, you little bastard.” 

Martin circled around her to check for anything else attached to her skirt. Then Jon spoke up, his voice faint. “Sasha, I think I may need to borrow that.” 

He’d rolled up his trouser leg and they could see two wriggling tails in his shin. Sasha turned the extinguisher on them and the hose spluttered a few times before going dry. Martin rushed to grab another from under the cot but the worms were already disappearing under Jon’s skin.

“Dammit!” Sasha flung the canister aside and knelt in front of Jon. “Does anyone have a knife or something?”

“Here!” Martin pulled his corkscrew from his pocket and passed it to her. A baffled expression crossed her face and she braced Jon’s ankle under her arm.

“Sorry, I’ll do it fast.” She glanced up at Jon and he nodded, curling his hands into the cot’s blanket. It was plaid-patterned dark blue and Jon had given it to Martin his first night here.

Martin had to look away and flinched at the first choked cry. “There’s one,” Sasha muttered and that terrible squishing sound came again. “Ugh, god, the other one’s all the way in.”

“Just do it,” Jon said. “Martin, where’s your tape recorder?”

“Oh, uh…” Martin fumbled in his bag for it and a blank tape.

“Get it running so - _AH!_ ”

“Almost!” 

Martin could only see Sasha’s back and watched her make a violent jerking motion before his gaze shot away and he pressed trembling fingers to the buttons on the recorder. He should be helping, he should get up and start wrapping Jon’s leg. But he was afraid Jon would flinch away from him. Jon didn’t want his help; Jon didn’t even likehim. There was no way Martin could be as steady as Sasha was now, plucking disinfectant and plaster out of the first aid kit he pushed toward her and quickly bandaging Jon up. 

“I just want to point out that I didn’t make this much of a fuss.”

Jon panted and the hand he used to sweep his damp hair from his forehead was shaking. “I think your removal was _substantially_ cleaner.”

Martin was bitterly jealous of her, which was ridiculous when he should really be worrying about horrible worm death.

Sasha set Jon’s leg gently on the floor. He was very pale and his hold on the blanket hadn’t relaxed. Would he hate it if Martin sat next to him and put a hand on his back? Probably. Definitely. So Martin stayed where he was and kept watch out the window.

It wasn’t the setting Martin would have picked to get to know Jon. When he pictured them talking, it was over dinner, or lunch if dinner was too date-like. Drinks, even. Martin knew of a nice little coffee shop down the road with cushy seats by the windows. They would be alone together because they wanted to be, not because supernatural parasites trapped them in a storage room and their other two coworkers had run off to god knows where. Jon would tell Martin a bit about himself because he wanted to, and _certainly_ not because Martin raised his voice at him. 

Martin _really_ hadn’t meant to. Jon was strangely calm; those brief sparks of anxiety had receded back into his persona and the bizarre skepticism surfaced again. Martin may have a crush, but even he had limits. So when Jon started to talk like this was an everyday bug infestation, Martin just sort of - went off. Maybe later, if they lived through this, he would feel mortified. All he felt now was frustration and a need for explanation.

Jon did something unexpected in response to his questions: he answered them. He sat on the cot, still holding himself with a careful sort of stillness that spoke of lingering pain and his face a few shades paler than its usual rich brown, and confirmed every nagging feeling Martin ever had about the Institute. That itch at his back that had him glancing over his shoulder and double checking his peripherals - Jon felt it, too.

Martin was almost grateful when Jon asked him to keep watch, even though it meant he had to witness Jane Prentiss barf black goo into case file boxes (he’d spent hours organizing those, dammit). It was a task and it kept him from completely panicking.

Even more surprising than Jon recognizing their “heart to heart” was that he wanted to keep it going. That he cared about how Martin felt. Well, that wasn’t quite fair - Jon always cared, in his prickly way.

“Martin,” Jon began carefully when their conversation trailed off. “You’re not...ah...you didn’t die here, did you?”

Martin thought he was joking until Jon continued to study him with a furrow between his eyebrows. He was absolutely not joking.

“What? _What?_ ”

The stare broke and Jon leaned away, embarrassed. “Just, the way you phrased that…”

“Did you think I was a _ghost?_ ” It was so ridiculous Martin had to fight down giggles. Some of them were hysterical, but not all. 

“No, it’s - uh...” Clearly that was exactly what Jon had thought.

Martin took pity on him and clarified, “It’s just that whatever web these statements have caught you in, well... I’m there, too.”

Jon nodded and looked down at his hands in his lap. Martin wondered if what he really meant had come through. I’m with you, he thought fervently. Even if all I can do is make sure you get a break and something to drink between statements.

Martin couldn’t resist one more prod. “A ghost, really?”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon said sullenly. Oh, Martin liked him so much.

Five minutes later, Tim burst through a wall that should have been solid with a cheerful, “Hi guys!”

He had his jacket hanging over his shoulders with a fire extinguisher tied to each sleeve. Two more were looped over his right arm by their hoses. The canisters Martin stored in the archives had come in handy after all.

Between an archive full of worms and some creepy tunnels, it wasn’t really a choice on where they were going next. Martin shoved his extra extinguisher in his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. “Can you walk, Jon?”

“I can limp,” Jon said and, to Martin’s utter astonishment, reached out a hand toward him. He scrambled to take it in what he hoped was a casual manner. Both of their hands were a bit clammy and they only held on for a moment while Jon steadied himself on his feet. Jon’s fingers were so much thinner than his own. They fit snugly in Martin’s palm. 

Martin was too tall for Jon’s arm to reach comfortably across his shoulders, so he gripped a loose fist in the back of Martin’s jacket. Martin held his breath - and then let it back out immediately because Jon would probably notice - and responded in kind, gently slipping an arm around Jon’s ribs. His bones were close to his skin there. Jon didn’t look at him as they started to move down into the tunnels. 

He couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever get to hold Jon without being in mortal peril.

Jon made a small sound of pain on the last step and Martin said, “You know, I could just carry - ”

_“No.”_

Tim snickered. “If we get attacked and you slow us down, _I’m_ picking you up. Like, you’re going straight over my shoulder.”

“Would both of you stop.” The tips of Jon’s ears went burgundy. “I won’t slow you down.”

Martin flipped on a torch and checked every bit of the floor, walls and ceiling. This corridor was clear of everything but a few stringy cobwebs. Tim held the hose of his extinguisher out like a gun. They stopped when their path forked sharply in opposite directions, out of immediate sight.

“After you,” Tim whispered.

“You’re the one with all the CO2!” Martin whispered back furiously.

Jon slipped out of Martin’s hold and braced an arm against the wall. “Martin, just get a canister and we’ll _all_ go.”

“But you - ”

“I’m fine. You need both hands.”

Reluctantly, Martin tucked his torch under his arm and got an extinguisher out of his backpack, just in time for everything to go to hell.

Tim was right; these worms were _much_ faster. Martin’s torch light barely caught them skittering around the corner before they were seconds from climbing their legs. Frantic bursts of CO2 filled the air and Martin lost track of Jon and Tim for a moment. Just a moment. He heard Tim shouting “Go, go!” and he only stopped running when he realized he didn’t hear any other footsteps. The way he had come bent to the right even though he didn’t remember taking any turns.

“Jon? Tim?” With dread clogging his throat, Martin spun in a circle and found himself alone.

He really should have just carried Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i miss sasher :(
> 
> i hope everyone is staying safe!


	3. the arms that the whole world was in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why does it take me a month to write ANYTHING  
> by the way, I want to make sure everyone knows this chapter only contains spoilers up to the end of season 3. I'll make a note for future chapters if/when that changes.

Jon was back.

Martin just happened to be exiting the break room when the door to the staff area banged open and Jon came through like a storm. Martin barely noticed Daisy and Basira following him because Jon looked ragged and bloody and _angry._ His eyes were hard as iron, hair a mess and curling wildly at the shortest layers. His shirt collar was stained with blood and Martin followed the trail of it up to the gauze taped to his throat.

“Jon!” he gasped. Jon’s pace slowed as their eyes met, something in his face softening. Martin reeled himself back in before he reached out to touch him, to make sure he was real. “You’re - you - are you okay?”

“Out of the way.” Daisy raised her arm to push Martin aside and Jon caught her wrist. Her face went from angry to surprised as Jon pivoted to stand between her and Martin.

 _“Stop it._ We’re here for Elias _,_ ” he hissed. Daisy snarled right back at him, lips pulled back from her teeth. She seemed to loom over him despite only a few centimeters of height advantage. Jon’s face paled, but he didn’t move.

Martin drew himself up to his full height and stepped up at his side. He never used his size to intimidate anyone; that was the last way he wanted to come off. But she was scaring Jon.

“What’s this about?” The chill in his voice surprised even him. Daisy turned the full force of her glare on him and he found the guts to glare back. Basira gave Daisy’s arm a firm tug.

“Martin, could you see if Elias is in his office?” Jon looked up at him and Martin began to protest.

“Wh - I’m not going anywhere while she’s threatening you!”

“No one’s going to hurt anyone,” Basira spoke up. “We just want to talk to Elias.”

Jon’s fingertips touched Martin’s forearm with barely any pressure. His hand was swathed in bandages. “Martin. Please?”

Martin could deny him nothing when Jon asked like that. He brushed their shoulders together as he turned and went up the stairs at a run.

Twenty minutes later, the archives had a new employee, all of them were now supernaturally permanent staff, and he found out his boss was a murderer twice over. Martin couldn’t begin to unpack what had just happened. If he thought about it too long, he knew he would start panicking. So he decided to focus on what was important. 

Jon finally emerged from Elias’ office. Martin stepped out from around the corner and tried to act like he hadn’t just been listening at the door. “Jon?” he called softly.

A month ago, Jon might have been startled. He looked too tired to expend the energy to flinch. “Oh...hello, Martin. Ah...everything’s gone a bit wrong, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Martin said with a weak smile. “You look like you’ve been having a hard time.”

Jon rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Yeah, I...yeah.” All the anger had drained out of him and left a slump in his shoulders. Martin didn’t want to push him, didn’t want to prod at his brittle edges for risk of him collapsing.

“May I take a look at your hand?” he asked gently.

Jon looked confused. He shifted his right hand out of Martin’s line of sight, like that would prevent him having already seen it.

“We don’t have to talk about it. I’ve got fresh bandages in my desk if you want them.”

Jon breathed in and out slowly. “Fine, okay.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Martin led him into the break room and pulled out a chair. “Wait here a second, I’ll get my first aid kit.”

“I doubt there’s anything in there that can help with this,” Jon said, lifting his wrapped hand.

Martin smiled at him. “You haven’t seen my first aid kit.”

When he came back, Jon had pulled up another chair across from his own. Martin set the kit down on the table and went to the sink to wash his hands. The container was an empty sewing kit he’d dug out of the back of his closet after the worm incident. Every drawer he’d stuffed with bandages, painkillers, antibiotics, and anything else he could think of that might be useful. 

“Well. You _do_ have a lot in there,” Jon said.

Martin dried his hands and sat across from him. “I figured I’d stock up on stuff to treat all manner of injuries, given the workplace hazards.”

That got a tiny smile out of Jon and Martin felt a bubble of delight swell in his stomach. “That was clever of you.”

Martin tried not to visibly preen. “Alright, let’s take a look.” He took Jon’s wrist in one hand and rested it in his own palm, a soft buffer between Jon’s hand and the table. Very gently, he began to unwrap the dressings.

“Dressings” was generous. There were gaps where they had been messily wrapped. They were coming loose around his fingers and, strangely, ripped across the palm. But Martin was not here to interrogate him. He slowly uncovered skin and winced in sympathy. It was badly burned, red and blistered across his palm.

“It was worse yesterday. I think...I heal faster now.” Jon’s shoulders tensed as if expecting Martin to suddenly shove his hand away in disgust.

“That’s pretty cool,” Martin said sincerely.

Jon snorted. “Well, at least I get something _cool_ out of turning into whatever it is I am.”

Martin didn’t know how to soothe that kind of fear, so he said, “If it protects you, then yes.”

Jon went quiet and Martin pulled away the last of the wrappings. The burn may have been worse yesterday, but it still looked bad. It stretched around to the back of his hand, too. Martin looked at the shape of it closely, tilting Jon’s wrist, and realized it looked like fingers. His throat constricted, anger boiling up inside his chest. “Was it Daisy? She hurt you?”

“No - I mean, this one, yes,” Jon gestured to his throat, bruised and bloody, “but this was...someone else.”

Martin took a breath and swallowed down the anger, making sure it didn’t affect his gentle hold on Jon’s hand. He dabbed it with antibiotic and Jon flinched, his other hand clenching in his sleeve as he fought the reaction to pull away.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Martin rubbed his thumb across the inside of his wrist. The skin was so delicate there. Martin could not imagine holding this man’s hand and wanting to hurt him.

“I should have some aloe in here somewhere...aha!” Martin found a small tube of it in the bottom drawer. He spread it over Jon’s skin with a few gentle strokes of his thumb.

Jon’s shoulders relaxed. “That feels better.”

“Good.” Martin lifted his arm and wound new gauze around his hand. “There. You should probably rewrap it every so often,” Martin said, knowing Jon probably would not. He pushed the tube of aloe toward him and added, “Take this with you, too.”

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon dragged himself to his feet and pressed the heel of his good hand to his forehead. “I should get going.”

Martin walked him to the door. “Maybe you could even sleep.”

“You ask so much of me.” Jon stopped in the doorway and pressed his eyes shut, like he was waiting for his vision to settle. He swayed forward and caught himself on the doorframe, and the sound he made when he put weight on his injured hand made Martin want to cry. It wasn’t even a shout, it was a whimper he closed his mouth around. Martin hurried to wrap an arm around his back and Jon just...crumpled.

“Whoa!” Martin’s other arm shot out to gather him close. Jon’s head slumped against his chest. For an awful moment Martin thought he’d passed out, until his legs shifted in a feeble attempt to take his own weight. He cradled his right arm against his chest and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. Okay if I pick you up? Just to get you back in a chair?” 

Jon nodded and Martin reached down to hook his arm under Jon’s thighs. He was distressingly easy to lift, all thin limbs in a compact stature. It wasn’t quite a bridal carry; if Jon leaned forward he could easily slide down and back on his feet. Instead, he nudged his head further into Martin’s shirt. He must be dizzy.

Martin eased him down into the chair and left an arm around his shoulders to keep him steady. He dragged the other chair over with his foot so he could sit. “We still have cots here if you need to lie down.”

“No, this is...this is fine. I’m all right,” Jon said. “This week has been...bad.” He shut his eyes and his head tipped onto Martin’s shoulder. Martin stayed perfectly still and pushed back his questions - when was the last time he ate, did he want anything to drink, could he stay in Martin’s arms as long as he needed.

“Just need a minute,” Jon mumbled.

“Of course.” Martin allowed himself one stroke of his thumb across Jon’s shoulder. He listened to Jon breathe slowly, fluttering the waves of hair that had fallen near his mouth. It was getting long, almost past his chin.

Too soon, Jon sat up straight and Martin reluctantly let his arm fall away. “You have somewhere to stay, right?” he asked. He wasn’t entirely sure Jon still had a flat.

“Yes, with a friend of mine.” Jon winced. “A friend who’s going to be _very_ displeased with me for disappearing for five days.”

“Can I - ” Martin stopped and turned the question into a statement. “I’ll call you a taxi.”

Jon let him. He was still staring at the floor and tracing his thumb along the weave of the new bandage when Martin got off the phone. “I don’t feel right leaving you all here with _him_ ,” he said with a glance toward Elias’ office. “Certainly not now that he’s confessed to murder.”

“I mean, he doesn’t seem to kill people for no reason,” Martin said and grimaced at his own sentence. “According to him, anyway. All of us are working toward the same goal right now with stopping the Unknowing. We’ll be all right. And we’ll be here for you.”

Jon visibly swallowed and his voice quavered. “Martin, I...thank you, you don’t know how - ”

“Hey.” Martin gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I know.”

The last time Martin saw Jon for a very long time, it was the evening before he left for the House of Wax.

They stood outside the Institute as the sun went down. The light made silver shine in Jon’s hair and deep shadows scattered across the sidewalk. A chill in the air whispered past them, not quite strong enough to be wind. Like an inhale before diving.

“I’ll see you when we get back,” Jon said at last.

“Yeah.” 

Jon’s eyes were very dark in the low light. Martin reached out to wrap him in a hug, because, honestly, screw it. He couldn’t let Jon go without it. He’d already hugged Tim, much tighter than he’d ever dare with Jon.

(“Don’t do anything stupid,” he pleaded, fists in the back of Tim’s shirt. Tim ruffled Martin’s hair and his grin was hollow.

“You know me.”)

He was careful. If Jon tensed up, he would pull away.

Slowly, Jon’s arms wound around his back and Martin felt brave enough to enfold him closer. Jon’s head fit neatly under his chin.

“Be careful,” Martin said. Begged. _Do whatever you have to do to come back alive._

“You too.”

Martin pressed his lips into Jon’s hair. If Jon noticed, he didn’t say. Martin let him go and it felt like he had to pry himself away.

“I’ll see you then.” _I love you._

Jon smiled at him, a hesitant, precious thing. This would _not_ be the last time Martin saw it. He refused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon in martin's head: comes through the doors to the institute like aragorn in the two towers  
> jon in reality: stands up too fast, immediately faints


	4. hello my old heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all are so kind and generous with your comments, you make me a very happy writer :)  
> this chapter contains spoilers up to and including mag132, as well as Lonely-typical depression and self-deprecation. my mom was blasting the Le Mis soundtrack while i was writing and On My Own sure is a Martin song isn't it

Jon was awake.

Martin stood at his desk and read the note left there three more times.

_Jon woke up this morning. He seems the same, no brain damage. He asked for you. I’m bringing him here tomorrow._

_\- Basira_

Martin set the note back down and started to laugh.

Jon was alive. _Jon was alive._

Martin’s back hit the door as his knees went shaky and weak. He pressed a hand over his mouth, smothered laughter bursting out of him as tears washed hot over his cheeks. 

Six months and fifteen days. Weeks and weeks of sitting by Jon’s beside, reading him statements in the hope it might help. Seeking out an Entity, _any_ Entity, so that he could have a story to tell Jon and Jon could have a way into his dreams. Hoping then they could talk, he could at least _see him,_ only for Basira to gently explain how she’d stopped dreaming of Jon once she’d joined the Institute, that being part of the Eye probably shielded them from it. Like Jon was a disease from which Martin was immune.

He could go to the hospital right now and see Jon, talk to him and hear his voice, wrap him up in his arms. 

But he couldn’t do any of that. The second his attention went to Jon, so would Peter’s. The thought of Peter even _looking_ at Jon made something in his chest roar, waking up for the first time since the Unknowing. Jon had been hurt, scarred, bruised, burned, _crushed_ and so fragile under hospital sheets and one blue plaid blanket. 

God, he hoped Jon hadn’t woken alone and in pain.

Martin would not let Peter hurt him, not in mind or in body. He should throw away Basira’s note. Instead, he tucked it inside the pages of his forgotten poetry notebook at the bottom of his bag.

_He asked for you._

Despite how quiet Martin’s presence in the Institute _(in the world)_ had become, Jon found him twice. Either he’d become powerful enough to see through it all, or Martin couldn’t even _vanish_ right. 

The first time, Martin stumbled his way through a conversation while trying not to look directly at him. If he met Jon’s eyes, he’d be lost. He wondered if Peter had done this on purpose, sent him down to document storage with Jon right next door, as some kind of cruel test. 

Jon was wearing clothes that were too big for him - Basira’s? - and the shoulder seams of his jacket slouched toward his upper arms. His belt was cinched tight around the waist of his jeans. Martin remembered having to throw out the bloodstained clothes Jon kept in the archives, one more piece of him gone forever. In avoiding his face, Martin’s eyes landed on the waves of his hair that brushed over his collarbones.

“It was good to see you,” Jon said quietly and Martin, with guilt sour in the back of his throat, did not say it back.

The second time, Jon found him in one of the upper offices. Startled, Martin spun to meet his gaze. Jon’s eyes hadn’t changed, still deep brown, still beautiful. He’d tied his hair back at the nape of his neck, though some of it still curled around his face and over his forehead. As Martin looked at him, he nervously tucked a few loose strands behind his ear.

Martin loved him as much as he ever had. Shame it didn’t make any difference.

“I suppose...I miss you,” Jon said.

A disbelieving laugh escaped Martin and he regretted it as hurt crossed Jon’s face. What would Martin have given to hear that six months ago.

It wasn’t really him Jon was looking for, Martin thought. Jon was lonely and Martin was the backup plan, the last resort when Jon had no one else to talk to. That was all.

“What happened, Martin?” Jon asked, so soft and vulnerable, with all the earnestness of “How’s the poetry?” and none of the hope. Martin suddenly felt a stab of anger; what kind of question was that? What happened was Sasha died, and Tim died, and his mother died, and Jon died. The anger faded quickly; he didn’t have the energy to maintain it.

Six months of sleep and Jon still looked tired. Six months of separation from him and four months neck-deep in the Lonely and he could still do this to Martin.

“You died,” Martin said bluntly. 

“I came back.” Jon’s voice reached out like a searching hand.

“Yeah. And I’m not going to let it happen again.” 

It was easier to walk away this time with that declaration hanging between them. It wasn’t like his heart could break any more than it already had. Jon’s safety was always more important than Martin’s feelings. More important than anything.

Someone banged on Martin’s office door. He hoped it wasn’t Jon. He hoped it _was_ Jon.

It wasn’t.

“Okay, listen,” Melanie said, hands on her hips as she stood in the doorway. “You can’t be around us, you can’t know anything, blah blah, whatever. I just need you to come put Jon in a bed and then you can go back to skulking around. You’re a big guy and he’s a twig so you can manage it, right?”

All Martin could think of to say was “Uh...why does Jon need to be put in a bed?”

“Because he passed out in the bathroom and I _guess_ I shouldn’t leave him there, but I can’t lift him.”

Martin was already up and moving by the time she finished her sentence. Melanie trotted behind him down the stairs, muttering something about her leg. His footfalls echoed through the stairwell as loud as his pounding heart.

“Calm down, he’s not really injured or anything, I checked,” Melanie said. “I don’t think he’s slept in a while. Probably has low blood pressure, too.”

“He does,” Martin heard himself say and Melanie huffed a short little “Ha!”

Her reassurance fell flat when he pushed open the door to the bathroom and saw Jon on the floor, small and still, slightly curled up like something abandoned. 

Panic reared to attention in the back of Martin’s throat. He snatched up Jon’s wrist, fumbling for his pulse. There it was. The air rushed from Martin’s lungs and he pressed the back of Jon’s hand to his cheek. 

He was warm. The last time Martin held his hand, that skin had been cold.

When he could move without his hands shaking, Martin tucked Jon’s hair out of his face and very carefully turned his head to look for blood where it had hit the floor. Nothing, not even a bruise. Martin checked over the rest of him with his eyes; there weren’t any injuries that he could see. He worried that they were on the inside, but Beholding would take care of that, right? 

Was his breathing more shallow than usual? Martin hunched over to lay his ear to Jon’s chest. If it _was_ more shallow, at least it pulled in and out easily. No crackling or wheezing.

Martin sat up and worked an arm under Jon’s shoulders. His other hand guided Jon’s head to rest in the crook of his neck, fingers sliding deep into the soft waves of Jon’s hair. He didn’t know if Jon hadn’t had a chance to get his hair cut or he was growing it out. He didn’t know a lot of things about Jon anymore.

Jon’s gentle breaths brushing across his neck were soothing, reminding him Jon was not dying, not cold and silent. Martin gathered his legs in his other arm and stood up slowly to move him as little as possible. He listened closely for any indication he was hurting Jon, but the sound Jon made was not of pain.

He stirred with a noise like a mumbled question and Martin froze. He didn’t know what he would do if Jon woke up like this. 

But Jon didn’t even open his eyes. He shifted his head like he was searching for something, lips moving silently. He curled into Martin’s front and nestled his cheek against Martin’s shoulder. Martin was very glad his back was to Melanie and she couldn’t see whatever his face was doing. 

He took a few deep breaths before he turned around and found her holding the door open for him. He whispered his thanks and carried Jon back through the office.

Gently, Martin laid Jon down on the first cot he saw. There was a tug at his shirt and he glanced down to see Jon’s fingers wrapped in the fabric. Swallowing hard, he uncurled them one at a time and set Jon’s hand down on the sheets. Melanie plopped herself in a chair against the wall; she had something wrapped in a tea towel on her lap.

“What happened?” Martin said.

“Why don’t you ask him when he wakes up?” Melanie said.

“I...I can’t stay. I have to get back to work.”

“Sure, of course,” Melanie said, flippant. “So, in the future, would you like me to send a memo if he dies?”

“ _Shut up!”_ Martin rounded on her. His jaw clenched to the point of pain and his throat felt tight. Jon made a little noise and shifted slightly before settling down again.

Melanie held his furious gaze and softened. “Sorry. That was unfair.”

Martin pulled hard on the reigns of his galloping heart and slowed his breathing before his eyes began to sting.

“Do you want me to tell him you were here?”

“Do whatever you like,” Martin said, which meant _no._ Jon’s breathing was shifting in pace and he needed to be out of this room now.

He’d just made it into the hallway when he heard Jon’s weak voice say, “Martin?” and it punched the breath from his chest.

“Sorry, just me,” Melanie said. Chair legs scraped against the floor as she moved closer. “Don’t sit up, idiot.”

“I thought…I was...” Jon sounded confused. He hadn’t seen Martin, then.

“Don’t worry about it. Just go back to sleep. Here.” A rustle of plastic.

“Oh. Thank you.” Jon hissed. “Nh...that’s cold.”

“Yeah, that’s the point.”

A cold pack - maybe his head hurt where he’d hit it. 

Melanie didn’t mention Martin. Martin wasn’t sure if she was respecting his silent wishes or she’d just forgotten he’d been there at all. People were starting to do that once he was out of immediate sight. Martin walked soundlessly away and Jon’s voice faded out of earshot.

He would be all right. He had to be all right. Martin couldn’t be the one to hold him back from self-destruction anymore. He just had to trust that when Jon inevitably charged off into danger, he wouldn’t do it without a plan.

_I have to be Lonely and I can't be that while you're close to me._ Martin sent that thought out like a radio signal. Maybe Beholding would pick it up and place it in Jon’s head. _Let me do this for you, because I wasn’t there when you died and I wasn’t enough to bring you back._

Two days later, Martin found out there was a bottomless coffin in the archives and Jon - beautiful, brave, _stupid_ Jon - went inside, and there was nothing Martin could do to carry him out again.


	5. sit down, breathe, and just listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN i know how long it's been, i started grad school again so that's my excuse. this is the safehouse chapter, spoilers to mag160, love you :3

It was about noon and Jon still wasn’t awake.

Martin would have laid next to him for hours if his stomach hadn’t started grumbling. Well, that and watching him sleep was probably creepy. What would Jon think if he opened his eyes to see Martin staring at him from barely a meter away?

(Maybe he would smile and whisper good morning if this worked out like Martin’s various daydreams.)

Jon had his arms and legs curled up, only half his face peeking out of the duvet, one hand curled against his mouth. His pillow had migrated into his arms, held flush against his chest. Martin was a little jealous. He hoped Jon wasn’t trying to avoid touching him, but that was better than imagining Jon using the pillow as some unconscious barrier of protection. And anyway, it was _really_ cute.

Martin slid carefully out of bed and tiptoed toward the door. He paused there, watching with adoring amusement as Jon shuffled toward the warm spot he had left.

By the time he’d used the bathroom, made and ate some toast, and peeked back into the bedroom, Jon still hadn’t moved.

It wasn’t like Martin _wanted_ to wake him. Having Jon sleeping in his bed was a dream he’d nurtured for years, even though this was technically Daisy’s bed. It’s _theirs_ now. Martin would just check on him, just to make sure he was alright.

Martin sat on the edge of the bed and gently touched his shoulder. He kept his voice soft. “Jon?”

Jon’s face scrunched up. His mouth settled into a pout as he fumbled to swipe at the hair falling over his face. Martin was very close to reaching out to help him when his eyes opened to squint upward. “Huh?” he said fuzzily.

His heart full to bursting, Martin stammered, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you. You’ve been asleep for like twelve hours and I, er...I got a little worried.” He slid his hand down to pat Jon’s arm. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” Jon said, looking at him through his eyelashes in a way that made Martin think he hadn’t processed anything he’d just said. Martin smiled at him and Jon smiled back in a sleepy tilt of his lips.

Martin fled back to the kitchen with his face on fire and got to work washing the kettle and a couple of mugs. The little window above the sink showed him the slope of the hill, trailing down to a few more houses in the distance, and the loch beyond. The sky was overcast and had been since they arrived, but the clouds were a lighter gray that boded well for the weather today. Not that he would mind some rainfall; listening to it on the roof while a fire crackled in the hearth sounded lovely.

He should probably do some more cleaning - they hadn’t done much more than wipe down the counters and sweep the floor before they collapsed into bed - but he was still clinging to the fuzzy, relaxed feeling that came with a good long sleep. He needed to do a proper shopping trip, too. He’d only grabbed a few essentials while he was in the village, as he’d been anxious to get back to Jon.

Speaking of, he heard the sink in the bathroom turn on and smiled to himself. He started on another cup of tea. It was ready by the time Jon stepped into the kitchen with a soft “Good morning - well, afternoon, rather.”

“Heh, good afternoon,” Martin said. “I - I really didn’t mean to make you get up.” 

“I didn’t think you did,” Jon said with a little smile. “But twelve hours is quite long enough.”

“Yeah, heh...I mean...you needed the rest,” Martin said. His mouth felt clumsy. Had he really forgotten how to have a simple conversation, or was it because it was _Jon_ , sleepy-eyed and soft and looking absolutely _darling._

His hair was loose and a bit damp, like he’d fussed with it in the bathroom. In the daylight it was easy to see how big Martin’s sweater was on him, how the neckline scooped low and rested well below his collarbones. The bottom hem drifted along the tops of his thighs. He’d rolled the sleeves up to actually fit his wrists. _God._

Jon glanced down at himself and asked “What?

Martin was staring again. “Oh - sorry, no - that...that looks good on you.”

“Alright, no need to tease,” Jon said with a tiny smirk.

“I’m not! I’m not, the green looks nice.”

Jon blushed. “I...well, th-thank you for loaning it to me.”

Martin wrangled the path between his brain and his mouth back into alignment and managed, “I only got up an hour ago myself. I made some tea, want some?”

Jon’s face lit up and destroyed his hard-won coherence again. He suddenly looked much more awake. Was he really that excited about tea?

“That sounds great, thank you.”

“Cool! Yeah, c-cool, I’ll go ahead and…” Martin turned back to the kettle as Jon settled onto the stool behind the kitchen island. “Here you go.” Martin set a mug down in front of him and Jon murmured his thanks as he lifted it to his mouth. The first sip made him pause in surprise. Martin had bought his favorite tea.

“How is it?” Martin said, grinning.

“Excellent, as always.” Jon took another long drink and sighed. “I really missed this.”

Suddenly it all came bursting out.

“I’m so sorry,” Martin blurted. “I wasn’t there for you, I _abandoned_ you, I’m sorry - ”

“Martin, hey, hey, it’s okay.” Through blurry vision, Jon came to stand in front of him, hands on his shoulders.

“It’s not okay!” Martin swiped at his cheeks. “I gave up on you - ”

“It had been months - ”

“You reached out to me and I brushed you off!”

“You were protecting me. And I’ve treated you far worse.”

Martin glared. “It’s not a competition. Just let me apologize.”

“Alright then, I forgive you.” Jon leaned into him and it was a natural transition into a hug. “And you came back. I thought maybe…” Jon turned his face into Martin’s chest. “You thought I...woke up wrong, wasn’t me anymore.”

Martin clutched him tighter. “No, _never._ I never regretted that you woke up, not for one second. You believe that, right?”

“I do,” Jon said without hesitation. 

“I wouldn’t have cared if you sprouted six new eyes.”

Jon snorted.

Holding him here, in their little kitchen far away from the Institute, was different from holding him in the Lonely. He seemed in no hurry to move, so Martin kept him close a little while longer. Jon was very warm from sleeping all tucked under the covers. All his bony edges were softened by Martin’s sweater. Martin liked the idea, silly as it was, that his clothes would wrap Jon in a hug even after he left Martin’s arms. 

“Go finish your tea before it gets cold,” he said at last.

Jon pulled back; his hands drifted over Martin’s arms as he looked up at him with those earnest brown eyes. “Are you okay?”

Martin badly wanted to kiss him. It didn’t even have to be on the lips - his forehead, the curve of his nose, the high arches of his cheekbones, maybe his hands so Martin could see his face, as much as that terrified him.

“I am now,” Martin said with a smile. 

Jon returned it. “Come sit with me.” He took Martin’s hand, just as gently as he had when they walked out of the Lonely, and led him to the other stool. He only let go to grab Martin’s mug, left next to the kettle, and pass it over.

Martin knew Jon cared about him. Jon followed him into the Lonely, he’d shown him with tear-filled eyes and the desperate cradle of his hands on Martin’s cheeks. The thing was, throwing himself into danger for other people was just something Jon did. It didn’t mean Jon’s feelings for him were...anything.

Martin’s own feelings had slipped out in his Lonely-dazed state; he couldn't stop them any more than he could stop his breath from fogging in the seaside air. And he couldn’t bring himself to regret them. Jon deserved to hear he was loved. Martin didn’t expect anything more than that.

Jon was going to make pulao. Jon was going to _cook_ for them.

Martin practically bounced down the aisles of the grocery store with the list Jon had given him. Jon was at home ( _home!_ ), cleaning the kitchen and getting started on lunch while Martin shopped.

It was fortunate that on Martin’s first go round, the bag of rice he’d blindly grabbed turned out to be 500g of basmati. Jon insisted it needed to soak for half an hour and that Martin could take his time.

By the time he returned to the safehouse, stuffed bags in hand, a pot of water was bubbling on the stove and Jon was elbow deep in a sink full of sudsy water. He looked up and smiled when Martin came in.

“Looks good already,” Martin said, setting one of the bags down at the end of the counter, careful of the bowl where the rice was soaking.

“It’s literally just water so far,” Jon said. He’d tied his hair back in a low knot and a few shorter strands curled against his cheeks. He looked relaxed, shoulders loose as he fished silverware out of the water and scrubbed it. One sleeve slid down his arm and he wriggled awkwardly trying to push it back.

“Here, let me…” Martin reached out to tug the fabric back up. His fingertips grazed the vulnerable skin inside Jon’s elbow and Jon twitched like it was ticklish.

“Oh, thank you.”

Martin realized he was staring when Jon glanced up and remarked, “Would you like help unloading the groceries?”

“Oh, no - no, I’ve got it.” Flustered, Martin backed away, and the bag slung over his shoulder knocked into the pot’s handle. It toppled off the stove and spilled boiling water across the floor, toward where Jon stood in only his socks. Martin dropped the bag and lunged to scoop him up. A puddle spread around his shoes and he set Jon down on the counter before he turned to snap off the burner.

“Sorry, sorry! God, that was stupid - ”

“No, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have had the handle facing outward, that’s one of the first rules of cooking - ”

They stopped talking over each other at the same time. Martin looked at Jon still sitting on the counter, his legs dangling off the side like a child, and flushed all the way to his ears.

“I’m...sorry, I - ”

“You just picked me up,” Jon said and his lips started to twitch. “Like a naughty cat.”

“I’m sorry!” Martin yelped but Jon started to laugh. He ducked his head and soft chuckles bubbled out of him. It was absolutely the loveliest sound Martin had ever heard. “Are you, er, okay?”

“Of course I am.” Jon dried his hands on a dishtowel and beckoned him closer. “Are you?”

“Yeah, fine. Still had my shoes on.” 

Like this, Jon was just above eye level for Martin. The tips of his fingers grazed Martin’s collar and he said, “You really take care of me, don’t you? You always have. You shouldn’t have to, but you always did.”

“I want to,” Martin said. “You have enough scars.” He cradled Jon’s outstretched hand in both palms and rubbed his thumb along the old burns. “And don't you dare say you would just heal from it.”

Jon’s mouth had started to open and he shut it quickly. His fingers curled delicately in Martin’s grasp. “Martin, I - I wanted to…” A little frustrated furrow appeared between his eyebrows; Martin wanted to press his lips to it. “I understand if you don’t...if you don’t feel - that is, if your feelings have changed…” Tension crept back into his shoulders and his eyes dropped.

Martin stayed very still. There was chaos inside his chest, his heart slamming in couplets. Baffled that these words were coming out of Jon’s mouth. Baffled that this was even in question. “I...wh...I _literally_ said I loved you.”

“Well...you were in an altered state of mind, I wouldn’t expect you to - ”

“Okay, then to be absolutely clear: I love you. Currently. And in the past. For an embarrassingly long time. Of _course_ I do.”

Jon looked at him like - Martin didn’t have anything to compare it to. Then Jon said his name and that was familiar. He’d said it that way in the Lonely, like Martin’s name was something of reverence.

“I love you,” Martin repeated and it felt as wonderful as seeing Jon’s eyes light up. “I _love_ you, Jon.”

Jon’s hand rose to his mouth as he made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “I thought...I thought I was too late, that I’d missed it...missed out on _you_.” His eyes went shiny and wet. 

Martin cupped his elbow. “Jon, can I kiss - ”

Jon flung his arms around Martin’s neck and nearly flung himself off the counter at the same time. Martin caught him up easily; he had plenty of practice in holding Jon steady. His arms wrapped tight around Jon’s waist as their mouths collided.

Jon tasted like he’d been sampling the trail mix they’d found in the pantry. There was sweetness on his lips and Martin almost ruined the kiss when he couldn’t stop smiling. Jon’s fingers clutched the back of his shirt collar as if there was a chance Martin would ever push him away. He rubbed his thumb along the back of Jon’s neck, soothing, and up into the hair behind his ear.

It took a few more kisses before Jon’s body relaxed and his mouth softened. He breathed fast when he pulled back and tears wet his eyelashes. Martin smiled, gently touched his thumb to the damp skin under Jon’s eyes.

Jon shoved his face into Martin’s shoulder and muttered, “God, this is embarrassing.”

“Hey, I cried in front of you, let me have this.”

“You can have everything.” 

Martin froze with a hand in Jon’s hair. He could feel the way Jon’s face heated where it pressed against his neck.

“Sorry, was...was that too much?”

“Too much for my heart, maybe.” Martin let him hide and kept petting his fingertips down the back of Jon’s head. He felt nearly jittery, giddy and half in disbelief. 

“Are you okay?” Jon murmured and Martin realized he was trembling slightly. His nerves were on fire, like warming up after frostbite.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m...I’ve been wanting that for _years._ ” He hugged Jon closer to him. “Did that really just happen?”

“I’m happy to do it again,” Jon said with a smile in his voice.

_“Please.”_

Jon sat up and kissed him again, softer this time. His fingers traced up Martin’s cheeks and into his hair to gently tousle it. “Knew it’d be soft,” he muttered with satisfaction and Martin tugged him back in because he had no words to respond to that. Kissing was much easier than talking.

At last, they stopped to breathe, forehead to forehead.

“I should start on lunch. Again,” Jon said, though he didn’t move.

“How about we come back to this later?” Martin said hopefully. Jon breathed out a laugh that made his skin tingle.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

Martin left his hands on Jon’s arms when he straightened up, reluctant to let go now that it was allowed. Jon shifted his hips closer to the edge of the counter and looked at him expectantly. “Well? I hate when my socks get wet.”

Martin laughed and swept him up in a bridal carry. Jon’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and lips brushed over his cheek. Martin wanted to put him back on the counter and cover his face with kisses. Later, later.

He set Jon down safely outside the threshold to the kitchen. “You know what I think,” he teased. “I think you _like_ being picked up.”

“I do not,” Jon sniffed. “It’s, er...just you. When you do it, it’s...” There was that sweet blush again. “You’re very good at it. I know you’re not going to drop me, or force me to go anywhere. I know I’m safe.”

Martin had to kiss him again, and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasn't sure if a tiny scottish shop would have basmati rice but i looked one up and it was totally on the inventory list so it's going in my fic


	6. oops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this out before the hiatus and that clearly didn't happen. Also I updated the chapter count again.  
> A few of you have said this fic feels like a hug (and I love you for it) so I wanted to warn you that this chapter is significantly less fluffy. No one is having a good time, especially Jon. Spoilers for mag159-162 and warnings for some blood, canon-typical eye horror, a very short mention of self harm in the form of scratching, panic, and dissociation.
> 
> Thank you for reading ♥

It was about noon when the world ended.

In Martin’s arms, Jon shook like he was still laughing although the only sound that escaped him was a faint wheezing. His face was streaked with blood that continued to drip down from his nose and over his lips, that welled from the corners of his eyes diluted by tears.He stayed where he’d collapsed when Martin pulled him away from the window, away from the broken glass and the howling outside. The scratches he’d rent on his arms had already faded but Martin kept his hands over them. He rocked Jon back and forth, trying to soothe them both.

A page of the latest statement lay half crumpled on the floor by his knee. Just the name _Jonah Magnus_ staring up from the paper made Martin seethe. He wasn’t willing to let go of Jon to pick up the other pages scattered across the floor, but one of them looked horribly like an incantation.

“I should have killed him,” Martin hissed through a tight jaw. “I was _right there_ , I should’ve just killed him.”

Jon didn’t do this; he _couldn’t_ have. _Why did Martin leave him alone?_

Jon jolted with another hard shiver, eyes wide and fixed on the sky - which stared back in a looming circle of black bulging pupil. Martin suddenly didn’t want that eye looking at them, even though he knew moving away from the window wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. 

“Okay. Okay, I’ve got you, let’s move back.” Martin gently coaxed Jon to uncurl, guiding him back to rest against Martin’s chest so he could get a grip under his knees. Jon let himself be shifted around with limp acquiescence. His trembling weakened until he was mostly dead weight, still and quiet, not even leaning into Martin’s chest like he always did. Even asleep, when he dozed off on the sofa and Martin would carry him to bed, Jon would always tuck his head into Martin’s neck.

Martin took him to the bathroom and set him on the lid of the toilet seat. He bent forward to look in Jon’s vacant eyes. “Jon? We have to - we should go and try to…” He wavered. Jon wasn’t looking at him; his eyes remained pointed toward the wall, maybe toward that awful thing in the sky. Maybe it was shock, maybe he was lost in Seeing everything. Maybe he was _gone_.

“Jon, please,” Martin begged as he turned Jon’s head toward him and felt cold tears under his fingertips. “It’s not your fault, please - just tell me if you’re hurt, nod or shake your head for me.”

Nothing.

“Alright, that’s okay.” Martin stroked his cheek. “Take as long as you need. I’m going to clean you up a bit.”

Martin grabbed the closest towel and hesitated over the sink. He didn’t want to turn on the faucet in case all that came out was blood or worms or something. Holding his breath, he lifted the handle a tiny bit. Clear water trickled out and didn’t burn his finger when he tested it, so he wet the towel and gently began to clean Jon’s face. To his relief, the bleeding had stopped. He tipped Jon’s face up toward the light and watched his pupils react. Who knew if it meant anything but it reassured Martin a little.

He lifted Jon up in his arms again and headed for the bedroom. There were no windows in here, something Martin didn’t understand until just now. He sent a silent thank you to Daisy for setting up a slightly safer place where Jon could rest.

“There we go,” Martin said as he settled Jon on their bed. He drew a blanket around Jon’s shoulders. He smoothed his hands down Jon’s arms and around Jon’s hands, bringing them up to his lips to kiss them. Jon still wouldn’t look at him even when Martin tried to draw his dull, unfocused gaze.

 _Don’t panic, do not panic,_ Martin thought in between forced deep breaths. One of them had to be functional. Jon just needed a moment. He thought of the broken window in the other room and flexed the numbness out of his fingers.

“I’ll be right back,” Martin said with a kiss to Jon’s forehead. He ventured back to the living room, paused to grab a poker from the fireplace, and crouched to keep out of view of the window. Maybe he should push some shelves in front of it. Maybe he shouldn’t make any noise at all. He didn’t know what was happening outside. _They’re all here now,_ Jon had said, with trembling awe and hands raised in exaltation. 

The front door was still locked and nothing had tried to break it down yet, but he kept an eye on it as he gathered the pages of Jonah Magnus’ statement from the floor. The bastard had a whole monologue here, didn’t he? Enough to clue Martin in on what the world was becoming, surely.

Martin took the poker with him to the bedroom and shut that door, too, for all the good it would do to protect them. He sat next to Jon on the bed and read the statement start to finish. By the end, his hands had made new dents in the papers. He tossed them all to the floor.

“Jon, this is not directed at you,” he said very calmly, just in case Jon could hear him, then screamed several swears into his pillow. 

How scared Jon must have been, alone and with his voice stolen, his body nailed down and out of his control. The key in the gate, shoved in and twisted. _I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself._ As if hurting himself wasn’t one of the things Jonathan Sims did best.Fighting the statement until his eyes and nose bled. Had his thoughts been begging Martin to come back and help him? Had he been aware the whole time?

Martin didn’t feel afraid anymore. He felt _furious_ and he hoped Elias knew it. He got up to gently brush a hand over Jon’s shoulder and slip into the bathroom to scrub away angry tears.

He took his eyes off Jon for barely a minute. When he glanced over, the bed was empty. 

“Jon?” Martin hurried out of the bathroom to find the bedroom door open, and beyond, the front door hanging open, too.

“No!” Martin bolted toward it, and froze at the threshold of their cabin. Jon stood only a few steps outside, half turned away. His head turned to look at Martin, and the eyes in his face were all wrong. They were the same shape, the same size, debatably the same color, but they weren’t human eyes. Not his Jon’s eyes. Maybe the irises were a bit too large, or the color was smearing into the sclera. Martin couldn’t quite tell. But he knew those eyes didn’t recognize him.

Jon didn’t look sad anymore. The bags under his eyes were gone; there was color in his face, healthier than he’d had in years. His hair drifted loose around his shoulders like the eye above had a mouth somewhere that was breathing, trying to draw him in. Jon breathed in time with it. He looked like he belonged there, against the false horizon of all black. He looked beautiful and Martin had never been more afraid.

“Come back inside, please. It’s not safe out here.”

Martin reached out toward him. Jon’s eyes moved down to his hand, brow furrowing as if confused.

“Don’t leave me alone in here. Don’t you dare.”

Jon’s arm lifted and Martin held his breath. His fingertips brushed across Martin’s and Martin didn’t dare move until those fingers curled down. With no more than a gentle tug, he led Jon back across the threshold.

“Oh, thank god.” Martin feverishly kissed the top of his head several times. “Thank you, thank you.” He flailed out with his free hand to push the door shut and lock it.

“Martin,” Jon mumbled.

“That’s right.” Martin cradled his face. “I’m Martin and I love you.”

A shudder rolled through Jon and Martin shifted one arm down around his waist to keep him upright. “Oh god,” Jon said faintly.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you, stay with me, Jon.”

“It’s not okay.” Jon’s voice was wrecked as if he’d been screaming, gasping between words. “How can you s-say that - I can feel - I c-can feel how frightened you are and - ” He paused, head tilting and eyebrows drawing together. “Y - you’re not scared...of me.”

It seemed to cut through the despair.

“Of course not,” Martin said. “You’re still Jon.”

“Even after I - I d-did this - ”

“ _You_ didn’t do this.” Martin squeezed his shoulders. “I read the statement, this is Elias’ fault, not yours.”

“You don’t understand.” Jon swayed, his head rolling forward to sag against Martin’s collarbone. “I can see it all now, every choice I made, every step I took led me here. I can’t...I…” Jon made a wordless noise of distress that battered against Martin’s heart. “It’s too much, I’m drowning - I - ”

“Okay, okay, shh,” Martin cradled him but he was overwhelmed, his body going rigid as his hands dug into his own hair, nails scraping over his temples.

“Ah - s - _**stop.**_ ”

Static burst inside Martin’s head and sent him to his knees, barely holding onto Jon. The cabin shuddered with a cacophony of creaks and snapping wood. This was it, the horrors were breaking in, and Martin could do nothing but shove Jon down and try to cover him.

It took him a moment to notice everything had gone quiet. He could still hear the faint sound of the wind - or something that howled like the wind - outside. But the front door was still closed, all the windows intact and shut. Jon’s breathing was slower, hitching slightly, but no longer panicked.

“Jon?” Martin whispered.

“I’m here.”

Martin sat him up carefully. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Jon laughed with what sounded like a dying breath. “It’s over, everything’s over.” He finally met Martin’s eyes. That deep, warm brown Martin so loved was hollow with anguish. “ Oh, Martin...you deserved so much better than this.”

“No, come on, d-don’t talk like that.” Martin eased him onto his feet. “Come here, let’s go lie down, yeah? Just rest for a minute.”

“I’m not hurt,” Jon said but he moved in a slow shuffle like his joints ached, or his body was too heavy. He curled up on his side on the bed, arms around his middle.

“Can I hold you?” Martin asked. Eyes closed, Jon nodded.

Martin took off his jacket and suddenly remembered what he’d stored in it. He went still with a sad laugh.

Jon opened his eyes. “What?”

Martin drew a plant stem, topped with two tiny purple flowers shaped like starbursts, from his pocket. “I found this at the foot of the hill. Just...wanted to bring it back for you.”

Jon’s mouth opened, silent but for a shaky breath. He touched the petals delicately with the tips of his fingers. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Can we press it in your poetry notebook?”

“Of course.”

Martin put it on the bedside table, curled up around Jon, and didn’t mention the tears Jon wept into his shirt collar. He left plenty of his own in Jon’s hair, next to where he pressed his lips.

Eventually, when Jon was ready to leave, they stood again before the front door.

The door handle stuck under Jon’s hand and he made an annoyed sound. “Stop it. Let us go,” he said sharply.

A pause, then a click. Martin shivered.

Jon turned the handle smoothly this time, but he didn't pull the door open. He drew in a deep breath and looked at Martin.

“Ready?” Martin said.

“Yes, just…” Jon swallowed and squeezed Martin’s fingers. “Don’t let go of me?”

Martin squeezed back. “Never.”

“If I...go away again, just keep me moving.”

“Okay. If I need to, can I carry you?”

Jon gave him a tiny smile. “Always. But I’ll come back. You shouldn’t have to bear my weight, too.”

Martin smiled back. “Jon, have you ever seen _Lord of the Rings_?”

Puzzled, Jon said, “No, but I read _The Hobbit_ when I was a kid…?”

“I’ll explain it to you on the way,” Martin said, and leaned in for one last kiss in the house that was briefly theirs.


	7. the second house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay ONE MORE change to the number of chapters.  
> Spoilers for mag180-181, plus a tiny detail from mag191 regarding sleeping arrangements.

On their third day at Upton House, Jon almost fell down the stairs.

The staircase was appropriately grand, solid wood, and they were quite far from the ground when he started to falter. Martin, to his shame, didn’t notice he was having trouble until Jon let out a gasp. By the time he turned around, Jon’s hand had slipped off the banister and he was tilting backward. He was out of Martin’s reach before Martin could even cry out.

Jon came to a sudden stop as if his arm had caught on something. The leverage swung him into the railing and he crumpled down on the steps.

“Jon!” Martin scrambled down the stairs between them and wrapped an arm around Jon’s back to keep him from slipping further. “God, Jon, hey, are you okay?”

Jon seemed dazed; he tried to press the heels of his hands against his forehead and made a sound of confusion when he couldn’t move his right arm. Martin realized his wrist was tied to the banister with several threads, almost invisible but for the way they glinted when he shifted his head.

“That was close,” said Annabelle, suddenly at the top of the stairs with a hand on her hip. “He could have really been hurt. Lucky I noticed.”

Martin’s arm tightened around Jon. “Thank you,” he said with forced politeness. “Can you let him go now, please?”

Annabelle made her way down the stairs one careful step at a time. She took Jon’s outstretched hand surprisingly gently and ran the nail of one finger down his wrist. He flinched and Martin fought not to slap her hand away from him. The threads fell away, Annabelle cooing, “There you go, no harm done” as she drew Jon to his feet.

“Right, thanks.” Martin angled himself in front of Jon, relieved when she released his hand. Martin didn’t like the way she was looking at him; he didn’t like her looking at Jon at all.

Annabelle tilted her head slightly. “I wonder how things would have gone if he had been ours.”

“Excuse me?” Martin said sharply.

“It just seems a bit unfair that something else put a claim on him when we had him first.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?”

Martin knew she was baiting him and snapped, “Jon can tell me or not tell me whatever he wants.”

“Wh - what did I not tell you?” Jon spoke up, fuzzy in the way he was just after waking up. “Did I forget - I-I’m sorry, Martin, I’m trying to share - ”

“No, hey, it’s okay.” Martin turned his attention to him to soothe, “I know you are. Don’t worry about it right now.”

Jon settled into Martin’s hands where they cupped over his shoulders. “Was Annabelle here?” he said, a bit more clarity coming into his eyes.

Martin knew before he turned his head that she was no longer standing there. She wasn’t on the stairs at all, and if she’d gone up to the next floor, it was out of their frame of vision.

“Guess she had things to do,” Martin said with a lilt of annoyance. He looked back at Jon and asked more gently, “What happened back there? You almost fell.”

“I, uh...I got dizzy.” Jon shook his head and seemed to regret it, leaning more heavily into Martin’s palms. “Still am, a bit.”

“Alright, let’s get off the stairs.” Martin wrapped an arm around him, drawing him close to guide him down to the ground floor. They shuffled slowly back toward the room they slept in. “You hardly ate anything this morning, I keep telling you you need actual food now.”

A little chuckle escaped Jon and Martin glanced down at him. “Jon?”

“Hm...just remembered something.”

Martin waited for more, and it was a moment before Jon spoke again.

“When I was in America and I called you…” Jon tilted his head back to smile at him. “You could tell I wasn’t feeling well. You kept asking me if I was eating enough. I felt so sick but just listening to your voice made me feel better.”

Martin smiled back, warmed deep in his chest. “I remember that. I was so happy you called, even if it was after midnight.”

“I forgot the time difference,” Jon recalled with a grin. “But you answered anyway.” 

“Of course I did.” Martin gave him a gentle squeeze. Jon’s face was relaxed, open and sweet, but Martin felt uneasy. “Do you feel sick like that now?”

Jon’s face fell. “I...that wasn’t what I meant.” The hand not holding onto the back of Martin’s shirt curled around his own jumper’s hem. “It’s not the same, I’m not in pain or anything.”

“But?” Martin prompted.

“I feel a bit...unmoored, I suppose. That’s all.”

Martin didn’t think that was all, but he let it go. They reached their bedroom and Jon protested when Martin tried to steer him toward the bed. He went for one of the lounge chairs instead and made an amused sound when Martin gave him a bag of crisps he’d nicked from the kitchen.

“Just try a little bit, you don’t have to finish them all.”

“I can finish it.” Jon said. He took the package from Martin’s hand and placed his own there in trade. “Sorry I worried you.”

Martin sat next to him, feeling somewhat ridiculous squishing together in the chair when the room was so large. Jon ended up mostly in his lap and his bony hips dug into Martin’s thighs. But Martin would take any excuse to cuddle him.

Jon ate the crisps, occasionally offering one for Martin to take straight from his fingertips. Martin only let him do it twice. Jon needed the calories. He needed the energy.

_(What Jon needed was not food.)_

“Do you feel any better?” Martin said when the bag was empty. He set it aside.

“Mmhm.” Jon’s cheek nuzzled against Martin’s shoulder when he nodded.

Grinning, Martin set his hand atop of one of the knees flung across his lap. “Goodnight, then.”

“M’not going to sleep,” Jon mumbled.

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not. I’m just resting here. You’re soft.”

Sometimes Jon just _said things_ like they weren’t supposed to make Martin ache to squish him close to his heart. Jon’s eyelids were drooping, though they wouldn’t close entirely. Martin would only know he was asleep when his fingers stopped tapping the back of Martin’s hand, or his foot stopped twitching in little circles.

Martin brushed a kiss over his forehead. Slowly, gently, he shifted his arm down and around Jon’s back. He folded Jon securely against his chest and lifted them both up from the chair.

Jon jolted into full awareness with a hoarse shout of “No!” His arms shot out to shove against Martin’s chest, wrenching himself out of Martin’s arms. He hit the floor on his hands and knees and scrambled backward. Away from him. 

Martin stood frozen. The sight of Jon recoiling from him felt like a kick in the chest.

Jon’s breathing was loud in the silence. His expression melted from blind terror into shock, and heartbreakingly, shame.

Martin lowered himself to one knee. “Jon, I’m _so_ sorry - ” he began the same moment Jon stammered, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why - ”

They stopped. Jon’s arms wrapped around his stomach as he stared at the floor.

“It’s okay, I won’t touch you,” Martin said softly.

Jon’s head shot up. “Wait, no.” Voice breaking, Jon crawled forward to press his face into Martin’s shoulder. “I just got confused for a moment, please don’t stop holding me.”

Martin fought back tears. “Okay...okay, anything you want, Jon. Do you want to try again?”

Jon nodded.

“Hold onto me,” Martin said and Jon’s arms went around his neck. Martin gave him a moment to settle, rubbing his back. He scooped up Jon’s legs in his other arm and stood. This time, Jon leaned into him, clinging hard as if to make up for a reaction that was not his fault. Martin paid close attention to his breathing as he moved to the bed, watching for any sign of tension. Guilt stuck thickly in his throat but he swallowed it down; it would only upset Jon.

“Martin, I really am - ”

“No more apologies.” Martin laid him on the bed and bent to cup his cheek. “Next time I’ll ask first. Now under the covers with you.”

“You wanted to explore,” Jon made his weak protest.

Martin replied, “And now I want to cuddle my boyfriend.”

Jon relented with a little smile on his face (Martin would never, ever get enough of his reaction to that word). He shifted back so Martin could slide in next to him. When they were both tucked in, he said, “Martin, I trust you, I do.”

“It’s okay, I understand.” Martin found his hand under the covers. “I’ve never really asked your permission to pick you up, and I’m sorry.”

“To be fair, most of the time you were saving me from grievous injury.”

Martin huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess so. Barring that, I’ll ask first.”

Jon tipped his head up for a kiss gladly given.

It wasn’t long before Jon fell asleep again, his cheek resting on Martin’s belly. They’d sat like this in the safehouse sometimes - Martin reclining on the sofa with Jon snuggled into his chest, close enough that he could balance his notebook on Jon’s head when he wrote.

Jon would sleep restlessly, whether it was on the couch or in their bed, limbs twitching and shifting across the mattress. It didn’t usually bother Martin, except for the way Jon’s brow would furrow as if he were in pain. Jon assured him that he wasn’t - that _he_ wasn’t the one suffering in those dreams. Despite their weeks of peace, despite Jon’s smiles in the daylight, that furrow always came back.

It was gone now. These past three days, Jon slept in utter stillness. Martin hated it. He kept his hand pressed between Jon’s shoulder blades, where he could feel Jon breathing. From this angle, it looked like his eyes were closed.

Jon sleeping with his eyes open didn’t make him look creepy, it made him look _dead._ And it was worse now, with his skin darkening under his eyes while the rest of his face went steadily paler. He used to be able to leave the Institute for weeks before it got this bad - now his health started to decline after a few days.

Martin’s thoughts did a hard turn away from what that implied. He was not going to have a panic attack in this bed while Jon was trying to rest.

They needed to leave soon. The selfish part of Martin railed against it. But even the selfish part loved Jon completely. And they had a job to do. This was a rest stop, not a home. Martin wondered if he’d ever be able to make a home with Jon again.

He traced gentle fingers over Jon’s wrist, the one Annabelle’s threads had wrapped around. 

She couldn’t have him. 

The thought appeared like a spark and grew hot. Martin actually had to take a deep breath to keep calm, and let it out slowly so he wouldn’t jostle Jon’s head too much. The flame stayed simmering under his ribs.

No. Not the Web, not the Eye - none of them could have Jon. They’d have to kill Martin first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> five more episodes..........


End file.
